Beautiful
by cherrydust
Summary: "Let me show you how beautiful you are...Sam’s eyes close and his lips form the word *yes*" {SLASH: A/L; F/S; M/P; B/A}


**Title:** Beautiful

**Author:** Ami

**Genre:** Romance, Angst

**Warnings:** Slash, Slight [Sexual] Innuendo

**Pairings:** A/L, F/S, M/P, B/A [one-sided]

**Summary**: Beautiful applies to everyone in one sense or another. ß Bad Summary.  My apologies.

**Disclaimer:**  Very Important News Flash:  LOTR does not belong to me.  End Very Important News Flash

**Author Notes:** Not first fanfiction or even first LOTR fic.  Just first LOTR fic have had guts to post.  Comments are very much wanted, adored, and fawned-over.  Helpful criticism is taken into consideration and appreciated; flames are fun.  Enjoy the fic.  ^_^

**Beautiful**

           You are beautiful, he tells Legolas.  So *beautiful*!  And his voice aches with a heartbreaking wonder as his fingers travel over Legolas's face, tracing the outline of his lips, the curve of his jaw, moving swiftly to plunge into long silken locks as his mouth crushes against Legolas's.

           Legolas moans under the intrusion, his own arms reaching up to wrap around his lover's, pulling the man closer.  Their lips move together, opening and closing, sliding wetly, the hot friction almost unbearable.  Legolas's eyes fly open and lock onto the deep blue of his lover's as their lips part.

           So beautiful.

           The husky whisper thrills Legolas and he watches as Aragorn's lips try to work themselves into a smile.  They can't quite complete the gesture and Aragorn's hands feel frantic against his skin as they cup his face, worn thumbs smoothing over his skin gently, tenderly.  Legolas smiles for his lover and it is with a soft groan that Aragorn gathers him to himself, his arms warm and secure around Legolas, his lips firm on Legolas's and his tongue delving into the hidden recesses of Legolas's mouth.

           Oh!  Legolas can't help but gasp, his hands moving in frantic circles on Aragorn's back.  Oh!  He has been living for centuries and yet he has never felt so *alive* then he does now.  It is now that he can feel everything, see it all, hear every little thing.  He hears the wind whistling as it passes through blades of grass, feels the rasp of an unshaved face and the tears in worn skin, sees the light of a far-off star.  And he smiles into his lover's kiss.  Oh!

           So beautiful.  You are beautiful, so, so, so-  And Aragorn's voice breaks and there are tears stinging in his eyes as he gazes at his lover.  So…  He can't speak, can only hold onto Legolas, his lips crashing down on his and any other place on Legolas's body harsh at first and then gentler and gentler until Legolas can barely feel their warmth.

           I love you, Aragorn tells him.  His hand lifts and presses against Legolas's mouth, silencing him.  His eyes smile at Legolas and the elf is silent, trembling as Aragorn's hand leaves his lips.  I love your eyes, he whispers, leaning forward and pressing gentle kisses to suddenly closed eyes.  I love your hair; he says and presses his lips to a shining strand hanging loose in Legolas's eyes.

           I love your hands.  Gentle kisses fall upon open palms.  I love your smile.  Lips press against a half-revealed smile.

           I-

           No more!  Legolas pushes Aragorn aside, his eyes flashing.  I don't need to hear this anymore.  It's all I've ever heard.  I don't want to be beautiful.  His slight half-smile is gone and suddenly, he seems very old and yet, very vulnerable.

           A smile plays at Aragorn's lips.

           Please.  Don't laugh at me.

           I'm not.  Don't you see, Legolas?  You're beautiful.

           I-

           Hush.  Aragorn's fingers press against Legolas's lips again and he leans forward, kissing them softly.  Your eyes are beautiful because it is in them that I feel whole again.  Your smile because it is when I see it that I can find the strength to take that one last step.  Your hair…because it makes me remember who you are and why I am happy to have this little moment of time with you.  Your hands.  Because they hold me and assure me that I am *loved*.  More loved than I have ever or will ever deserve.

           You are beautiful…because I *love* you.

           Legolas's eyes close as Aragorn moves forward and covers his lips with his own.  There's a long pause as they stay like that, still and trembling, lips pressed lightly together.  Legolas whispers, his voice soft, throaty, I am yours.

           And Aragorn joyously claims what is his.

---

           Frodo knows Sam thinks he is beautiful.  And maybe he is.  It is of no matter to Frodo.

           What is of matter to Frodo is that Sam is not conscious of his own loveliness.  And it is now; in the soft moonlight that Frodo is determined to let Sam know.

           I love you, Sam.  I love you.

           A soft flush crosses Sam's face, his eyes still wondering and incredulous after all this time, that Frodo loves him.  Really *loves* him.  He smiles uncertainly and lifts a hand, his fingers sliding into the dark curls about Frodo's ear and his palm cupping the curve of Frodo's face gently.  I love you; Sam whispers back, his voice unsteady and rough.  I love you!  And he pulls Frodo to him, burying his face in the soft dark curls, his arms tight around Frodo.

           Frodo relaxes into the embrace, his own arms wrapping around Sam and his lips touching the side of the other's neck softly.  Sam, he whispers into his neck, I love you.  You're beautiful.  I love you, he repeats again and again, shaking slightly in Sam's arms.

           Sam gives a small smile, releasing Frodo and studying his lover intently.  I still don't believe it, he says softly, running a hand through his hair and widening his smile.

           Believe what?  Frodo closes the distance between them, kneeling so that his knees brush lightly against Sam's, his hands folded primly across them.  His eyes smile at Sam.

           That you're here.  With me.  Like this.  Sam sighs and leans forward, his lips brushing against Frodo's in a soft, fluttering motion, barely touching.  Frodo lets out a disappointed moan as Sam's lips draw away and impetuously, he launches himself at Sam, knocking the other hobbit to the ground and pressing hot, insistent kisses to Sam's lips.  Sam gives a surprised but not entirely protesting gasp before lifting his arms to bring Frodo crashing down beside him, returning the kisses received in twice fold.

           Frodo.  His name is a breathy utterance on Sam's lips and Frodo feels everything substantial in him melt at the sheer incredulous wonder in Sam's eyes.  You're so beautiful.  And even as Frodo silences him with a soft kiss, he feels his own sense of wonder grow.  Does Sam really think he is blessed to have *him* for a lover?  The Ringbearer.  A curse more than anything.

           And even as Frodo's kiss grows more insistent, he admits to himself that he is selfish.  He wants Sam here with him.  A curse, maybe.  But it matters not to Frodo and some deeply buried part of him points out that it matters not to Sam either.  It only matters that they are both together, here, now, and that Sam's body is as hot and ready as his own.

           Beautiful.  The word escapes Sam with a sigh as his hands slowly work away the fabric of Frodo's shirt and leave him shivering in the night.  So beautiful.

           Frodo's eyes are feeling suspiciously damp now as he hears Sam's words of love and admiration.  Sam, he whispers, catching his lover's hands and pressing a swift kiss to them.  Sam, *you* are beautiful.

           He shifts uncomfortably; he is unused to such words.  Frodo, I-

           So beautiful, do you not have eyes?  Frodo's hands slowly loosen around Sam's and a smile curves around his lips.  Gradually, he moves closer to Sam until he is in the other's lap, his lips close to Sam's ear.

           Let me show you how beautiful you are.

           Slowly, Sam's eyes close and his lips form the word *yes*.

---

           Merry loves Pippin's hands.  Small, slender things that glow pale in the moonlight.  Quickly moving blurs that dance up and down his skin, quickening his breath and sending shivers down his spine.  Oh Pip.  Oh Pippin.  Oh!  I love you; love you so much.

           A tiny smile quirks at Pippin's lips.  Do you really?  He whispers into Merry's ear, his lips closing over the delicate tapering to a point, his teeth nicking slightly.  Merry moans, writhes under Pippin's ministrations.  Do you really love me Merry?

           I do, Merry whispers, his twisting body falling into stillness.  He lifts his head and stares anxiously at Pippin, supporting himself awkwardly with one arm as he lifts the other to draw Pippin closer to him.  Their heads bump lightly together and Merry murmurs into the thick cluster of curls suddenly in his face, I *love* you Pippin.  How can you doubt me?

           I don't know.  Pippin's voice is muffled, his face hot as he buries in it in the juncture of Merry's neck and shoulder.

           Don't know?  There's nothing to know.  I love you.  I'm in love with you Pippin, there's nothing more to know than that.  Pippin lifts his head and peers intently into Merry's eyes at these words, a tiny smile glimmering at the corners of his mouth and a mischievous glint in his eyes.  His lips curve into an inviting smile then and Merry sighs, gathering Pippin to himself and kissing him.  You.  Are beautiful.

           Do you think so?  There is a wistful quality to Pippin's voice and Merry stares at him, his eyes wide and surprised.  There is a self-doubting and apprehensiveness that clings to Pippin now and Merry's heart gives a mournful twist.  How he has missed the transformation from the cocky, boisterous Pippin to the anxious, unsure one before him now, Merry knows not.  All he knows is that somewhere on this journey, Pippin has shed the protective cover of childhood and now there is frightened grown hobbit staring at him, unwilling to let go of his childhood and yet, wondering what the future holds.

           If Merry is his future.

           I do, Merry whispers, his voice thick with emotion.  Pippin is serious, his eyes focused on Merry's.  I love you Pippin.  And I happen to think that you are the most lovely hobbit ever.  And with that bluntly stated notion, Merry leans forward and kisses Pippin, cupping his head gently and delving his tongue deep in the damp hotness that is Pippin's mouth.

           Oh.  Merry.  Pippin's eyes narrow into soft green slits of pleasure as he smiles up at Merry.  That was nice.

           You're so beautiful.  I love you, Merry states helplessly, unable to say or think anything else.  He is full of Pippin's eyes, Pippin's smile, his mouth, his hands…

           Funny.  I was just thinking the same about you.  Pippin smiles and runs a soft finger across Merry's lips.  Just thinking how much I love you.  And how irrevocably beautiful you are.

           Merry smiles back and watches as Pippin's agile hands dance across his chest.

           Merry loves Pippin's hands.

---

           Aragorn is beautiful.

           This Boromir knows and this Boromir denies, hating himself and succumbing to his desires.  It is with the knowledge of Aragorn's beauty that Boromir gives in, his own self-hatred rising up beneath the waves of desire that travel his body.

           His eyes close and his hand drifts across his bare chest, twin stiff peaks awaiting his perusal.  In his mind he sees Aragorn's hands, warm and calloused and yet, gentle and soft as they pleasure his body.  And his eyes open and in the darkness, the sound of an elf's sigh comes to his ears.

           Jealousy boils up in him as he imagines Aragorn pleasuring the elf.  His eyebrows rush together and a sharp frown twists his features as he sees the pale fragile-looking hands of Legolas push aside the barriers of fabric that cover Aragorn.

           And against his will, desire quivers deep in his belly as he imagines the unclothed Ranger.  His breathing becomes hitched and his eyes close once more, seeing the thickly muscled body of Aragorn.  The way that his features twist with erotic pleasure.  The way his mouth opens to let the soft sounds of ecstasy escape him.

           Boromir lets his hand drift down to the source of his torment and undeniable pleasure.  Yes he hisses and tears burn behind his eyes.  No his mind screams at him, do not do this; do not shame yourself like this.  Who is this Aragorn?  No one.  He claims to be a King's son but who is he really?  What is there behind the façade of a denied-heir and a denied-troth?  Nothing.  He is, as the hobbits say in their scornful country accents, a Ranger.  *Strider*.

           He breath is fast now, the image of Aragorn fixed in his mind.  Yes.  Yes.  Aragorn!  Oh Aragorn, so beautiful, so unreachable, so *wrong*!

           Boromir shudders and if it is with lust or self-loathing, he knows not.  A mixture of both emotions are swelling inside of him and he is breathless, his whole body tensed and sweat-slicked as his hand desperately attempts to bring him release and his mind alternates between vivid images of Aragorn and lectures of the shame that lies in this deed.

           Wrong.  Very wrong.

           But oh!  So beautiful.  So very beautiful.

           Tears that are stinging are now welling and threatening to fall and short gasps are leaving Boromir's lips as he strives to reach climax.  Please, please.  Just let it come, just let there be release, let there be some comfort in it.  Bring me some ease, Boromir begs as his brow drips sweat into his eyes.

           So much work for such a tiny drop of pleasure.

           And yet, what pleasure it is.  To think of Aragorn in such a way, to learn every inch of his body in his mind's eye, to imagine that the lustful sounds escaping his lips are not meant for the elf but for he, Boromir!  Boromir has never tasted such desperate and searing pleasure before.

           And at last, half-weeping, Boromir achieves his climax, his whole body surging with the sudden release.  He falls limply to the ground, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his breathing laborious and a sudden dam of self-pity and hatred bursting.

           Boromir turns his head up to the stars and pushes the thought of Aragorn to the back of his mind, his eyes closing; jealousy and hate wrenching his heart and mind by turns.

           But he cannot entirely fade the imprint Aragorn has left on his heart.

           For Aragorn is very, very beautiful.

---

           Gimli gives a derisive snort as he lies back on the ground, staring up at the brightly lit stars.  He is alone by the dying fire and he is not ignorant as to why.

           Lust.

           Love.

           *Beautiful*.

           Gimli gives another snort; dwarvish skepticism at anything that cannot be mined or wrought from what is mined rising.  What is there to be had in such relationships?  Short-term pleasure or relief, yes.  But why waste such precious time and emotion on something so fickle as another creature?  Why not focus on the everlasting glittering of gold, stored deep in the bowels of the mountains dwarves so dearly love?

           And something stirs within him; something whispers maybe there is not just gold to be mined and orc-necks to be hewed.  Maybe the Halflings and the elves and the men are not so foolish.  Maybe…

           Gimli shakes his head stoutly; disgusted with the way his mind is wandering.  He wishes for sleep to come, to take away this foolish nonsense.  Nonsense quite obviously spawned from far too much time speaking with a lovesick elf and swooning hobbits and lusting men.  No dwarf has ever come up with such dribble such as what is floating through his mind.

           Lust.

           Love.

           *Beautiful*.

           Gimli gives a short bitter chuckle under his breath.  There is no use lusting for anything than a hot bath and draught of strong ale at the end of a long day.  No use in loving anything than the mountains from which caves and mines spring.  No use in finding anything *beautiful* than the glimmer of gold and silver or any other precious metal.

           Beautiful.  What foolishness.

           And yet as his body relaxes and the stars seem to soften their glow and sleep begins to soften the sharpness of his thinking, Gimli's stout and prudent thoughts begin to ease.

           Beautiful.

           Maybe…maybe there is something in beauty and lust and love after all.  Perhaps, while gold is a lovely thing indeed, there is something about loving another.

           Something beautiful in the reciprocation of that love.

           Maybe…maybe beautiful is ambiguous.  Maybe there is no definite beauty.

           Maybe.

---

           Gandalf is quiet as he draws in long, thoughtful breaths of his pipe and exhales in a similar thoughtful manner.  Smoke rings form and circle one another as he sits in the darkness, his eyes gleaming.

           Beautiful.

           As Gandalf slowly smokes his pipe and sits in thought, he can feel the emotion and thoughts of the others washing over him.  It comforts and warms him while at the same time, saddening him and sending soft chills down his spine.

           He hears the soft tones of Aragorn as he whispers low in Legolas's ear his love and reverence for the elf.

           He watches Frodo, suddenly bold, straddle Sam and with a roguish smile, show Sam exactly how beautiful he is.

           He feels the light hands and apprehension of Pippin, the soft and heartfelt assurance of Merry as soft kisses alight on Pippin's mouth.

           He tastes the frustration and bitter pleasure that consumes Boromir as he strives to satisfy his body and leave his heart aching, tastes the bitter syllables of Aragorn's name.

           He knows of a dwarf's scorn for any living beauty and he knows of the soft wonder and slight wistfulness of a dwarf, surrounded by beauty and understanding none.

           Gandalf sits and smokes his pipe, letting the emotions and actions of the Fellowship wash over him in slow, undulating waves of knowledge and understanding.  His breathing is quiet and deep, his eyes closed and his body relaxed.

           Smoke rings tumble across the sky as he suddenly smiles and takes harsher, deeper drags of his pipe.

           He can feel it pulsing in them all, feel the tension and the slow pull to climax.

           Yes.

           It is all very…

           Very…

           Gandalf smiles.

           …Beautiful.

**::END::**

**Closing Comments:**  This didn't turn out quite the way I planned.  But then again, nothing ever does. .  May re-edit this at a later date.  *ahem* Anyway, thanks very much for reading and be sure to have a nice day dear!  ^_^


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